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“That’ll teach you to attack defenseless women, cockscum.” Her savior’s chest rapidly rose and fell, and he balled his gloved hands near his chest. After several more gulps of air, he at last relaxed his stance. He swiped a palm over his forehead, sweeping back dark brown, almost black, wavy hair.
Jaw slack, eyes wide, and shaking with shock, Willow gaped at the fallen men. Hands curled into tight fists as if to defend herself, her breath came in hard little pants.
What would’ve happened if her rescuer hadn’t protected her?
What would’ve happened if she hadn’t warned him?
God above, she didn’t even want to contemplate either scenario. The world tilted crazily for a second, and she, who’d never swooned in her life, feared she might collapse.
“Miss? Miss?”
The man gingerly touched Willow’s shoulder, drawing her back to the present. Swallowing convulsively, she lifted her eyes to his. In the dim light, it was impossible to see what color they were, but surely genuine concern and kindness shimmered there.
“Are you hurt?” She sent her gaze over his form, seeking signs of injury.
No obvious rips marred his fine clothing, nor did she see any dark rings forming on them that might be blood. Other than him flexing his hands as if they pained him—and how could they not after the pounding he’d given the sots splayed on the lane?—she detected nothing.
A low, rich chuckle—quite the most scrumptious sound she had ever heard—followed a flash of his white teeth. “I was about to ask you the same thing, Miss…?”
He had quite the most deliciously deep voice. And oddly, he didn’t appear the least perturbed by what had just occurred.
Drawing in a wobbly breath, Willow extended her hand, grateful it didn’t tremble. For she still quaked like a spring leaf in the midst of a tempest. “I’m Willow Harwood.” She motioned to her bag, lying sideways on the ground. “Newly arrived in London this very afternoon.”
Her foodstuffs were likely mashed beyond salvation.
“What an unfortunate welcome to this fair city.” The gentleman accepted her hand, and his features grave, actually bent into a formal bow. “Please allow me to introduce myself. Ansley Twistleton, Earl of Scarborough.”
An earl?
She had no idea a lord of the realm was capable of fighting the way she just witnessed this man take on these bounders. So much for all aristocrats being weakling fops.
A touch of chagrin prodded her for judging so swiftly and inaccurately.
Lord Scarborough released her hand. “Miss Harwood, if I may be so bold, your accent is American?”
“Yes, I was born in Connecticut and lived there for the first fourteen years of my life.”
Was he one of those pompous, opinionated people who believed the Americans inferior to the British? For Pete’s sake. People were people. Why couldn’t she be judged on her character and not her origin of birth?
“I’ve lived in Cambridgeshire since,” she went on.
“I’ve only been to Cambridgeshire once. A quaint township as I recall.” He waved a contemptuous hand at the men. “I shall contact the constable, but likely those blackguards will have scurried off to their slimy holes before an arrest can be made.”
“Should we tie them up?” she asked warily.
One hawkish eyebrow rose. “You have a length of rope in your bag?”
Did he tease or mock her?
“No,” she admitted.
“Well then…?” His lordship bent and retrieved her valise and her pathetic excuse of an umbrella. She swore his lips twitched as the umbrella flopped over on itself. “Your weapon, madam, is rather beyond repair, I fear.”
Uncertain if he quipped or if he was serious, she reached for her possessions. He was a most difficult man to read. Not that she was in the habit of attempting to decipher what went on in men’s minds. More specifically, sinfully handsome lords’ minds.
She was similarly uncertain if she ought to be offended or amused. She settled on politeness. “Thank you.”
If she hadn’t yet been reeling from what had just occurred, she’d have laughed at the rather affronted glance he leveled down the perfect line of his nose.
